


falcon daughters

by malmiele



Series: Falcons and dragons have one thing in common [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Dynamics, Gen, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-05 10:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20487179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malmiele/pseuds/malmiele
Summary: Rodrik Arryn's precious princess had died in the childbirth bed, and the last thing he wanted was for her daughter to suffer the same fate.Aemma Arryn never weds a Targaryen prince, but it will not be that easy to steer clear of King's Landing.





	1. Chapter 1

“Have they all gone and lost their marbles?” Their father huffed, round face turning pink with anger. “She is ten. Ten! They want me to marry her off at the start of next year. Do they really think I would agree? Only a madman would take a child to wife.”

“And the princess acted like she was half a child herself, and still you wed her anyway, father.”

Rodrik shot a glare at Elys – this oldest girl of his, she had never learnt to mince her words – but then his gaze softens with guilt. As much as he hated to admit it, Elys spoke the truth.

“I have already wronged her mother. I will never let the same fate befall Aemma.”

* * *

Her father passes away peacefully in his sleep. It is Denys who comes knocking at her door, and he hems and haws so long that Aemma had begged him to spit out whatever he had to say.

“Father has left us, little sister,” he finally manages to muster, his lips trembling as if he were just a boy and not father to one of his own. “Hugo has sent word to Elys and Amanda. We should head downstairs soon.”

Aemma had lost her mother the day she came into the world. She had never felt pain for that – she never knew her mother – but now she had lost her father, the father who loved and treasured all his children so dearly, so fiercely. She sits there in shock for a while, still clutching onto a pillow in her arms, still trying to come to terms with what had happened.

Denys lets a single tear run down his cheek. He had lived his life relatively free of worry as the second son – like Aemma herself, his mother had passed when he was too young to remember. She knew her brother must have been as distraught as she was, but he wiped his cheek with his sleeve, and held her hands in his.

“Do you remember Lady Alyssa’s tale?”

Aemma knew of Queen Alyssa, her great-grandmother. Aemma knew of Princess Alyssa, the mother of her once-betrothed. But the Alyssa that Aemma was most familiar with was the weeping marble lady whose name was Alyssa Arryn.

She nodded.

“Cry till your heart is content. Shed as much tears as need be, little sister.” He blinks, and lets the tears pooling in his eyes flow down his cheeks. “When the tears dry, we must gather ourselves and be strong. For Hugo. For the Vale. And for Father, most of all.”

* * *

Both her parents were already small of stature, but Aemma truly was a petite little thing – she would be fifteen in a week yet stood just slightly under five feet. Her silver-gold hair fell to her waist like a shimmering waterfall, half of it braided back into elaborate patterns weaved with blue and white bellflowers. Amanda had helped her with it, and picked out for her a necklace of sparkling sapphires, a deep, rich blue the shade of her eyes; her father’s eyes. The bodice of her sky-coloured gown was adorned with Myrish lace dyed an icy blue.

“You always look so splendid in blue,” Amanda sighed as they boarded the carriage. “Blue has always made me look unappealingly pasty.”

“Then you should be glad that you can wear your lord husband’s colours now, Lady Redfort,” she teased. Amanda flushed pink in response, which made Aemma laugh harder. “Honestly, dear sister, red is so becoming on you. It makes you look so appealingly rosy.”

Aemma would have worn blue even if it made her look horrible. She had made sure every dress she brought with her was blue, just to drive home the point that she was an _Arryn_, not a Targaryen.

It had been a long time since Aemma had come to King’s Landing – the last time she had visited with her father when she was just a child, before they had fallen out with the royal family over the issue of her marriage. Today, she could look nothing less than her best.

The centre of the festivities was one of her to-be-wed cousins – although Daemon looked more like he was attending his funeral rather than his wedding. He glances up at her stunned when she first enters the hall on Amanda’s arm, but looks away scowling when his older brother, the Viserys she had nearly married four years ago, strides over to greet them.

“Lady Amanda. Cousin Aemma!” There is an innocent kindness in his smile, as if he knew nothing of the proposed match between them that had ended so badly. Aemma almost believes him.

The prince had eventually wed his youngest aunt Gael, who was only two years older than her. She was heavy with child now, and although Gael had spent her life halting and unsure about most things, she was very certain that the child growing inside her was a girl. She smiles shyly at Aemma, but suddenly retreats and runs towards the sound of another voice.

Queen Alysanne placed an arm around Gael’s shoulder fondly, looking in their direction. Surprise flashed across her face.

“Oh. Oh, my word.” The queen was past sixty and walked with a cane, but she tried to make her way towards Aemma as quickly as possible.

Aemma blinked.

“You must be Aemma.” A trembling, wrinkled hand reached up to hold Aemma’s face. “How you have grown, sweetling. You look just like your mother.”

She wanted to greet _Your Majesty_ at first, but changed her mind at the last minute. “Hello, Grandmother.”

* * *

King’s Landing is far too hot and stuffy for the likes of Aemma, who had spent her life up in the cool, dry abode of the mountains. Fortunately for her, the wind seemed to be picking up that night, and so Aemma had been walking up the winding stairs, looking for the best place to catch the breeze in peace.

“A pity,” she heard a voice from behind her, “I had to settle for this bronze bitch of mine.”

Daemon Targaryen is the last person that should be out at such an hour. “You are getting married in two days,” Aemma says, raising an eyebrow, “and calling sweet Lady Rhea such things is most unbecoming for a prince of your status.”

“My _status_?” Daemon pushed closer with a smirk. “You speak like I am going to be the king.”

“King or not, you are royal blood all the same.”

“And are you?” Daemon pointed a finger at her; but no matter how close he tried to edge towards her, Aemma did not move one bit. “You’re just an Arryn girl. Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“Equals or not, it would do you good to listen to _some_ advice. It doesn’t have to be from me. You could ask His Majesty for advice regarding your behaviour, and the answer would be the same. Would you like to try?”

Daemon actually steps backwards. A little victory on her part.

“Interesting. I would have thought your answer different. That you would claim to be equals to me, that you have dragon blood within your veins.”

“That is true,” she admits with a stubborn smile, “but I am a falcon’s daughter.”

* * *

Rhea, who technically was her niece-in-law since Hugo had wed Lord Yorbert’s sister, was a year younger than her but a head taller than her. She is a pretty girl, Aemma thinks, with apricot waves framing a heart shaped face. She looked especially lovely in the gown of white velvet, diamonds winking along the neckline. And Lord Yorbert was a wealthy man, with Rhea his only surviving child and heir. Many a young man would dream of wedding a girl as fine as she.

Yet the prince made no attempt to contain his displeasure, even at the sept. Aemma had half a mind to just go to Lord Yorbert and tell him to call the wedding off, because clearly Rhea deserved better.

Her own father had tried to arrange marriages that made his children happy. Political alliances were a must, of course – Hugo’s wife had been a mostly political match, but even then Father had made sure they found each other agreeable. Denys wed Lord Templeton’s first cousin once removed, so far down the line she was almost commonborn herself, but Father had allowed it since they were deeply in love. Amanda had married the then heir to Redfort after at least a year of him flirting with her almost outrageously, and Elys – no one could tell Elys what to do, even Father, and he had reportedly sighed in relief when he found out the target of her affections was the youngest son of Lord Corbray and not the old man himself.

Of course, Aemma had been too young for her father to have arranged anything for her before he passed. He had stated in his will that her happiness was in her own hands now.

Aemma kept those words close to her heart.

She does not even get the chance to see the ceremony happen. They had still been sitting in the sept, engaging in politely whispered smalltalk, when a messenger bearing the Arryn crest burst in.

“Lady Amanda! Lady Aemma! The Stone Crows…the Stone Crows attacked Lord Hugo and Ser Denys at the Gates of the Moon…”

Aemma flew. Not literally, of course, for Aemma was unlike her other dragon-riding cousins. But at that moment, it felt like she was flying.

She cannot remember anything that happened from the moment the messenger arrived at the sept to the moment she is back at the Eyrie, maesters shaking their heads in apologies as they covered the corpses in white cloth.

One of them hands her a couple of small boxes. Her hands tremble as she opened them; in the brocade one lay a pair of large creamy pearls, mounted on silver to be worn as earrings. In the velvet one lay an exquisitely carved mirror of gold, depicting bellflowers and falcons in flight across the moon. “They were meant to be presents for your fifteenth nameday, Lady Aemma,” the maester says mournfully. “The mirror was from Lord Hugo and the earrings from Ser Denys.”

Elys screams. Amanda has been crying since she heard the news, and she showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. Aemma’s eyes felt like they were glazing over. How could they leave them all at once…her legs went weak. Ser Corbray caught her arm, and helped her into a chair.

“The celebrations must be cut short,” Lord Redfort says solemnly. “Lord Yorbert’s sister is among the deceased. And…” He took in a deep breath, dreading to say the words. “The Eyrie lacks a master.”

The Stone Crows are so cruel, Aemma thinks, as she steadies her feet and walks over to where the corpses lay. Hugo, his wife, his two boys; Denys, too.

A nanny walks out into the main hall, a young girl in her arms.

In that moment, relief washes over her, and the tears finally begin to fall.

They had saved little Jeyne. Hugo did manage to leave a child to remember him by, after all.

* * *

Lord Yorbert, as little Jeyne’s uncle, is named Lord Protector, but Aemma holds regent powers as well. Unlike her other sisters, she was still unwed, and thus the lords were assured she would take no sides other than that for the good of the Vale.

At night, Aemma sings her to sleep; she heard that Jeyne’s mother had used to do that for her. The poor girl would grow up never knowing either of her parents. Aemma’s heart ached for her.

When Amanda brought her own little girl, Jessamyn, to the Eyrie to be a companion to Jeyne, the castle finally brightened. Jeyne was enamoured of the new girl, following her wherever she could, and laughter could be heard once again.

Denys’ wife brought their son away, no matter how Aemma tried to convince her to stay; fortunately Elys visited often enough with her own sons to fill up the gap left behind. She had repeatedly insisted that her younger son be fostered with Jeyne and Jessamyn too, when he was old enough.

Aemma had agreed, of course. Baby Corwyn was an absolute dear; never had Aemma seen an infant so well-behaved. At times she wished she could adopt him as her own.

She is bouncing him on her lap when a messenger from King’s Landing arrives.

“Prince Baelon of Dragonstone has passed, my lady. His Majesty is calling for a Great Council to determine who will be his heir.”

She exchanges a glance with Lord Yorbert, and nods.

“Lord Yorbert is old and ailing. The trip to King’s Landing would be hard on him. As an Arryn myself and aunt of the Lady of the Vale, I shall go in her stead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm new so the tags suck. Forgive me, and please advise me on how to tag this more properly in the comments, lol


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning out to be a bigger project than I thought it would be...well, hope you'll enjoy what's coming up.

“Do sit, dear cousin. It has been far too long since I last properly saw you, and I am so glad I can dine with you this evening.” She nods in her husband’s direction, and Corlys Velaryon graciously offers her a seat next to the princess.

“It is my honour, Your Highness.”

Rhaenys Targaryen laughs softly in response; it is not like those high-pitched giggles and simpers of the court ladies at King’s Landing, but a low and hearty chuckle. The princess had never been conventionally ladylike; Aemma recalled seeing her with wild black curls astride her steed as a child, laughing and going as fast as she could, shouting something Aemma had not been able to make sense of.

Rhaenys had been bold and brave in her girlhood, and now, although more mellow on the surface, she was undeniably a force to be reckoned with.

Corlys, sitting opposite her, raises his glass. “A toast to you, Lady Arryn. We wish nothing but the best of fortunes on the Eyrie.”

She peers into her glass, noting the wine’s pale green colour before taking a sip.

“How do you find the wine, my lady?”

“This is certainly fine wine,” she answered, although the truth was she found it slightly too exotic for her taste. “And not from anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, I would think.”

“You think right, my lady. This is Myrish nectar.”

Anyone in Westeros would know of the famed seafarer Corlys Velaryon and his many voyages to faraway lands. He did not need to reinforce that with his choice of alcohol…although Aemma understood where he was coming from. After all, Rhaenys and her husband would not have invited her for dinner on her first night in King’s Landing for a reason as simple as catching up.

No, this definitely had something to do with the Great Council. With the succession.

The fare she was served was fairly average for the standard of King’s Landing – which was for the better, as Aemma was not one who could be impressed by fancy feasts. As she took her last spoonful of the creamy soup of mushrooms and capon, a servant set out a small platter of desserts. Aemma reached for the closest one – a small tart the size of her palm, filled with a mild-tasting soft cheese equal parts sweet and savoury.

Perhaps it was just Aemma overthinking, but it felt like the couple was watching her intently. She lifted her eyes from her plate, confirming her suspicions.

“This is very nice,” she says in an attempt to ease the awkwardness.

When Rhaenys smiles brilliantly, Aemma realises she has played straight into their hands.

“It is, isn’t it? My little Laenor loves them so, they are his favourite. He’s a sweet boy, our son; kind and cautious with a clever head on his shoulders.”

That was the real reason why she was here. They were winning the support of Aemma, and the Vale, for their son. Aemma pressed her lips together; she did not hold much love for Viserys, and given his tendency of wanting to please everybody with words of no substance and a smile plastered on his face, she doubted he would cause any trouble on the throne – but she doubted that he would do much to progress the state of things. Not the worst king Westeros could have, but not the best, either.

Laenor, on the other hand…

“How old is he?”

“He turned seven a month ago,” Rhaenys replied, “and has a dragon to call his own. Seasmoke. He hatched it himself, at the end of last year, two weeks after I presented it to him. Which is record time, if you ask me. Our grandmother’s Silverwing hatched after two weeks and two days.”

“Definitely a true son of the dragon,” Corlys chipped in. _Definitely a true Velaryon as well,_ Aemma thinks, _and most certainly your son, if he named his dragon Seasmoke of all things._

Laenor was still young, with a long life ahead of him. It would be a while before he would be truly ready for the crown. Aemma was not sure the boy would have the privilege of time.

“I will be honest, cousin,” she says, swirling the unfinished wine in her glass – she did not intend on touching any more of it. “Why not put forth your claim instead of your son’s? You may have been passed over in favour of our uncle in the past, but grandchild versus grandchild, as the situation is now, seems more balanced, more –”

“More fair?” Rhaenys cuts in abruptly, by now having completely abandoned all impressions of politeness. If her royal-blooded cousin was to negotiate with her, after all, Aemma would rather they do it as equals, without the flowery pretences.

The princess snickers. “Sweet little cousin, surely you know by now how biased those lords are towards women. Half of them would grow red with anger at the thought of being ruled by a woman. They seem to think it their right, just because of whatever lies between their legs.”

For a second, her bitterness softens as she looks toward her husband. “Excuse the impropriety.”

Corlys just shrugs it off with a relaxed smile. “Come on, love. You know I used to swear all the time out at sea. I just act proper around you for the children to see, but since they’re not here, feel free to vent all you need. I’m sure Lady Aemma is understanding.”

“You’ve mellowed, you silly bastard,” she scoffs, but it is fond.

_This man must work wonders,_ Aemma thinks, _to have calmed Rhaenys down with just his presence._

“Either way.” She continues, still serious but face not as harsh as previously. “I felt it would be best to put all our efforts into supporting our son, instead of bringing up the claims of myself and our daughter. After all, even if I was crowned queen, Laenor will inherit after me. It would have just been a matter of time. Passing over me for him is not that bad.”

“And honestly, I see more of my father in him than even myself.” Her voice seems to tremble a little, and Aemma understands – sometimes, she looks into the mirror and thinks of her father, too.

“I always took after my uncle in temperament, rowdy and noisy and probably the bane of my mother and all septas; our little Laena is just like me, but with Corlys’ bravado and ambition thrown into the mix. A whole mess, although I love her so, gods bless her. But Laenor – ” the pale violet of her eyes seems to darken in the candlelight, “he is so much like my father it startles me. He may be only seven, the wee thing, but his gaze is just like Father’s, calm and collected with a protective warmth to them. Before Grandmother passed, she had told me too; she told me that Laenor had been just like Father as a child. She was crying, Aemma. How similar must they be?”

_And Uncle Aemon would have made a great king,_ Aemma thinks. Uncle Baelon would have, too, but he is dead as well, and his sons are nothing like him. If what Rhaenys says is true, perhaps the boy really did have the potential. He could be great, too, as long as he was guided in the right direction.

She thinks she can trust Rhaenys more than the likes of Viserys. Definitely more than the likes of Daemon, who would be right after Viserys’ young daughter Rhaenyra in line for the throne, if Viserys really was crowned king after Grandfather.

That Daemon…there was no way Aemma would let him near that throne if it was within her power, not after how he treated poor Rhea. No way. She doubts Rhea would want it too – queenship be damned, Rhea would hate the royal court and all its politics – she finds it disgusting, although she can play the game as well.

Aemma makes a mental note to write to her and ask about her well-being as soon as possible.

“If your boy is as good as you say he is, are there others in favour of him?”

“The Stormlands, certainly, since they are led by my uncle. The Blackwoods, the Celtigars, the Bar Emmons. Ellard Stark has been supporting us, and has agreed to get the rest of the North on our side provided we betroth Laenor to his only daughter, which can be done.”

All they needed was the support of the Vale to turn the tide to their favour.

Yes, it could be done.

“I see no reason to deny the Iron Throne of a good king, dear cousin.” She holds out a hand to Rhaenys, who takes it and shakes it firmly. “The Vale will stand alongside you.”

This could bode well for Jeyne’s rule over the Eyrie, too – although Rhaenys was not going to be crowned queen, the crown would have to pass through her to get to her son, and she would most likely be regent for at least a few years. If a woman could hold sway over the Iron Throne, a woman could run the Eyrie.

“I knew you were a good, righteous lady of sense,” Rhaenys says, relief showing clearly on her face. “The Vale should be glad to have someone like you.”

And if _one_ woman could influence the crown, what is stopping more?

“I have faith in your boy – he will only have the best of influences, will he not?”

Rhaenys catches the glint in her eyes with a look of knowing, and Aemma cannot help but feel impressed at how fast her cousin catches on.

“Only the best, I am certain,” Rhaenys responds brightly, twirling a tendril of hair around her finger. “You would be the perfect influence.”


End file.
